Conspiracy

A Bird in the Hand

I feel a pressure of air and hear an all too familiar ‘zip’ pass over my head. Warm liquid splashes on the back of my neck and in my hair. A sharp report follows.

“Sniper!” I yell, instinct taking over.

A moment of panic seizes me. A projectile traveling at high speed just passed over my head, close enough that I felt the air being displaced by its passage. I know what the sound and feel of warm liquid on my neck means. I also know that Robert, Bri, and Lynn were right behind or next to me, aside from the others.

I rise and turn before I even know I’m doing it. Adrenaline, which I was coming down from after safely exiting the night runner lair with Lynn, resurges. A small amount of relief enters as, upon turning, I see Robert and Bri — Robert just beginning to rise from his bending to help with the dropped mag and Bri staring open-mouthed. Both have droplets of bright red blood sprinkled across their faces. Time slows and seems to stop for an instant before zooming back to normal speed like a train running through a tunnel at high speed.

More relief floods in as I see Lynn crouching in answer to the shot ringing out. Grabbing the backs of Robert’s and Bri’s vests, I shove them in the direction of the hospital wall and head after them.

“Against the wall, NOW!” I shout.

The outside wall of the hospital offers our only chance of cover and I hope we can make it to its safety before another bullet is launched, seeking a target. A quick glance behind tells me that the others heard and are racing on my heels through the overgrown front lawn. I know someone is hit, but right now it’s about getting everyone to safety — at least what I hope is safety. From the path I felt of the bullet and it hitting someone behind, I feel fairly confident that the wall will enable us to stay out of the line of sight, providing that whoever fired at us doesn’t move.

There isn’t another shot; there is the only loud swish of the tall grass against our pant legs, the sound of our boots hitting the ground on the run, and our panting breath. I pass by and move to the side of Bri as she streaks through the grass, putting myself on the sniper side of her and Robert. We sail through untrimmed, waist-high bushes lining the outer hospital wall, sliding to our knees on the bark-covered ground. Carried by my momentum, my shoulder slams into the brick wall.

Hearing others break through the bushes, I glance back relieved to see Robert, Bri, and Lynn, all looking my way; Robert’s and Bri’s are eyes wide. Feeling covered for the time being, I rise over the bushes to look back where we were standing just moments ago. Lanes of bent grass attest to the routes we hastily carved through it. Just over the tops of the grass, I see a dark-clad body lying face down on the concrete path leading to the hospital entry. I immediately recognize the diminutive figure with dark hair fanned across the warm stone. Looking down the line we are forming against the wall, I verify my assumption — McCafferty isn’t with us, but instead, lies unmoving on the sidewalk.

“McCafferty,” I hear Lynn and Gonzalez call out at the same time.

There is no movement in response. I feel my heart sink with sorrow. I want nothing more than to run to her side…to find that she is okay and help her to her feet, or patch her wound and carry her to cover. I know in my heart that she is most likely gone. In a flash of an instant…gone. A sweet, young woman, always with a ready smile. Her laugh always the first to burst forth, or her giggle, which earned her endless good-natured ribbing…silenced. A woman with the sweetest disposition…with dreams and fears…one of us. One moment standing with the rest of us, happy that Lynn was back, and the next…unceremoniously falling to the hard ground…her life ended in a flash of a moment.

“Allie,” Gonzalez calls, eliciting the same response…nothing.

I notice both Lynn and Gonzalez take a step away from the wall toward McCafferty, their expressions making it evident that they are on their way to aid a fallen comrade.

“No!” I whisper harshly.

I’m torn. My heart goes out to Allie, and I am filled with grief…a grief that I can’t express until we are safe — providing that moment comes and whoever fired on us doesn’t shift positions. A sorrow that, once started, will flow unrelentingly. Time is critical. I glance to the corner of our wall of protection and back to McCafferty. Looking down the line pressed against the brick, all eyes are on me. I notice a couple glances toward McCafferty.

I know the sniper is either changing positions to get a better shot on us or waiting for us to break cover toward our fallen teammate. That’s if they know what they are doing. From the time of the bullet passage to the sound of the shot, I know the shooter is some distance away. It will be difficult to get a shot on us in this position from any distance. The trees in the parking lot to our front give us additional cover.

Two things I do know…by the accuracy of the shot from a distance, the shooter knows what he or she is doing and, that I was the target. It could have been just a random target selection and not a defined target. However it came to be, I was the one being shot at, and my bending down to pick up my mag caused the round to sail overhead. Instead of hitting me, it hit McCafferty standing behind. This makes me feel worse.

With everyone’s eyes still on me, I give a big sigh. I know what needs to be done. It’s something that’s just ingrained. I unhook my M-4 and hand it to Robert who is kneeling by me.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

Without answering him directly, I sharply whisper down the line, “Stay here.”

I launch through the bushes and take off at a run, hitting a lane of bent grass one of us created moments ago. I left my carbine because it’s not going to do me any good against a sniper firing at long range and will only slow me down.

Feeling the sun on my shoulders as I streak through the overgrown lawn, adrenaline coursing through my body and expecting to feel the solid impact of a round hitting me, the situation feels surreal. My sight picture narrows to single focus… getting to McCafferty.

I feel like I’m making no progress at all as I stare at the body lying prone. No matter how fast I run, it seems to stay the same distance away. I don’t alter my path, but instead change the speed of my dash across the lawn. Zig-zagging with someone shooting at right angles won’t hinder their shot, that’s for when you are running toward or away from them. But changing your speed will make it harder for them to hit. And it’s important not to make predictable alterations, but do it almost constantly. As will varying your height from semi-crouch to upright to leaning forward.

I slow to a trot and, two steps later, break into a sprint. I feel something tug on my fatigues at the shoulder, pulling my vest to the side slightly and almost knocking me off balance. The sting comes at the same time as the sound of the gunshot. I recover and keep running.

McCafferty’s body hangs in the distance for a moment and then I seem to arrive in a rush. She is face down with a pool of drying blood under her head and around one of her shoulders. Her dark hair is spread across the light gray concrete, part of it clumped in the red pool.

“Allie!” I call, sliding on my knees beside her.

It’s important to keep moving or the shooter will be able to get a firm bead on me. I can feel the crosshairs on my back like a physical presence. Any moment, I expect to feel the solid impact and pitch forward. My mouth is dry from fear, and I can feel my heartbeat in my temples. The quick glance at her as I slide to my knees causes a sickening feeling inside.

“Allie!” I call again, grabbing for her drag handle at the back of her vest.

I rise and begin pulling her across the sidewalk by the handle. Her hair smears the puddle of blood as I drag her though it. Still no shot, but I anticipate it coming any moment. I’ll be slowed substantially pulling McCafferty to the wall. I concentrate almost solely on the next step and pulling her along; although, in the back of my mind, I spare a few thoughts for the sniper. Keep moving and don’t think about it. If I give over to thinking only about the shooter, fear will set in and it could make me freeze. There is only the next step.

McCafferty’s body rolls over as I pull her onto the grass. Her head lolls to the side, revealing her ruined throat — there just isn’t much left of it. I feel an anger building inside alongside deep sorrow. McCafferty’s body lightens and becomes easier to drag.

“Leave her, Jack. She’s dead,” I hear Lynn call as if from a distance.

Looking up, I see her by my side pulling McCafferty along with me. It’s a startling sight as I didn’t even notice her arrival. The intense adrenaline over the past few hours has caused a fog to come over my brain. I hear what she said, but it doesn’t make sense, and I keep pulling McCafferty.

“Jack! Leave her,” I hear Lynn yell again.

The fog lifts. Clarity returns. I look from Lynn to McCafferty. Hating to do it, but knowing we’ll just leave another body out here if I don’t, I release my grip on the drag handle. McCafferty’s body falls to the grass and I run alongside Lynn. We alternate pace and I feel another wave of pressure pass barely in front at shoulder level. The report of the gunshot echoes as we both turn on a burst of speed, reaching the bushes and the wall.

Panting hard, I sink to my knees and retrieve my M-4 from Robert. The stinging in my shoulder returns, having been forgotten seconds after feeling it.

“Dad,” Robert says, “you’re hit.”

“It’s nothing,” I reply and tell everybody to stay close to the wall.

Leaving McCafferty out in the open after making the rescue attempt tells it all. I see anger etched in the faces of the others, their lips drawn tight. A single tear makes a dirt-lined streak down Gonzalez’ cheek. She wipes it away, smearing dirt across her face, and glances at McCafferty. All of our hearts are filled with a deep sorrow and anger at someone who took this sweet young woman away from us.

I inch forward toward the corner of our little slice of safety. The wall is at an angle to where the shooter was last, so I should be able to get close to the corner without exposing myself. It’s important to try and get a picture of where the sniper is before we come up with a plan…yeah, there’s that word. As it is, we’re rather stuck in this position. Forward or to the side is out of the question, and into the hospital is an even worse option. I can still hear the shrieks drifting across to us from the hornet’s nest we kicked over.

“Drescoll, Jack here,” I call into the radio.

He answers a moment later, “Drescoll here, go ahead.”

“Go button plus five,” I say.

“Copy,” he replies.

Button plus five is a code for switching to a different frequency without broadcasting which channel we’ll be going to. Button is a channel briefed before an op or a daily setting and denotes what is essentially the zero channel to base settings from. So, saying button plus five means five channels above the base channel. If the base channel is seven, then button plus five is a command to go to channel twelve. If someone is scanning frequencies, they’ll find us, but there’s no use making it easier for them.

“Drescoll’s up,” he calls over the new channel.

“We have someone taking shots at us and have taken cover by the front wall of the hospital. I don’t have a clear picture of their position, but I estimate about four to five hundred yards to the south-southeast of the main entrance,” I state.

There are a few seconds of hesitation before he says, “Copy. Is anyone hit?”

I hesitate, especially knowing that he and McCafferty were, well, in lack of other terms, together. I don’t want to give out any information, but the real reason is that I don’t want to tell him at the moment. I need him clear. It’s not really that fair, but there it is. I turn to Lynn and she gives me a shrug as if to say, ‘your call.’

“We have one down. Trying to get a position on the shooter now,” I say.

“Who is it?” he asks.

“No names over the radio. You and Horace stand by to head to the sniper’s location.”

Another hesitation. “Do you want us to come up there and provide a shield with the vehicles for you to evacuate?”

I would like nothing more than to just get out of this situation. However, I want to find and hopefully capture this shooter. Just having them evacuate out of the area will leave the threat still there for some future time. I’m assuming this was an intentional act and not some deranged person who happened to come across us. That is still a possibility but, for some reason, I don’t think it is.

“Negative. Standby.”

Kneeling just before the end of the wall, I extract my signal mirror and extend it around the corner. There aren’t any bushes on that side of the building, so I can get a clear view in that direction. The small face of the mirror makes it difficult to see much, but I see a line of offices in the distance, away from and across a street from the hospital. Of course, seeing anything remotely like a person at that distance with the mirror is basically futile. I’m mostly looking for movement. I don’t see anything.

The mirror flies out of my hand, breaking into several shards. One moment it’s there and the next it’s tugged forcefully from between my fingers. The round that shattered the glass rips through a bush next to me and buries itself into the ground with a thud. The clap of a gunshot follows. Yeah, this shooter knows what they are doing and apparently has quite the zoom on their scope. The benefit is that, just before the mirror was blown from my hand, I saw a flash of light coming from on top of the two-story office buildings.

I’m actually surprised that they are still there, and that is one of the mistakes they are making — staying in one place for so long. Shoot and move should be their method of operation. I get missing and wanting your target down, but they should have been on the move.

“Drescoll. The shooter is on top of the blue two-story office buildings approximately four hundred meters to the south,” I call. “Take them alive if possible.”

Drescoll lurches forward with the Stryker, coming to a stop. Jack’s radio calls sent an icy jolt of fear down his back. He feels his heart tighten and is sick to his stomach. There is someone down and he knows Jack isn’t telling him who it is because he doesn’t want to tell him it’s Allie. Deep down, Drescoll knows it’s her, and the thought makes him want to fold up. She is the only bright light in this hell they are living in…the only thing that has given him hope. To think of her gone makes him want to sink to his knees and lose himself in grief. However, he tells himself that he doesn’t know this for sure. Actually, there is a part of him that’s upset at Jack for trying to protect him and thinking he needs to be. He would do what was needed regardless as the whole team is relying on him.

He exits and joins Horace. The two of them pour over a map, quickly finding the building mentioned by Jack. It isn’t hard to find as there aren’t that many buildings in the area. There is an urgency to come up with a plan and get into the area. Jack wanting to capture the sniper puts an added wrinkle to any plan. It would be easier to spook the shooter out of the area by driving the vehicle nearby. Anyone worth their mettle would vacate the area quickly. Drescoll, like Jack, is surprised they’ve actually stuck around this long.

“I’ll take my team and sweep around the side, positioning in an arc around the shooter’s latest position. I’ll need to sweep wide enough so the vehicles can’t be heard, disembark a ways out, and head to our positions on foot,” Drescoll says to Horace, outlining his intended route on the map. “Then, when we’re in position, you head forward with the Stryker and flush them out.”

“You’ll need more than just your team. I only need two here. You can take the other four with you. That will give you a better coverage area,” Horace states.

With a quick plan set up, Drescoll boards the two Humvees with his and part of Horace’s team. They need to do this quickly yet with caution. He doesn’t know if the shooter has a team for security or not, so they’ll need to proceed cautiously once they are on foot.

The idling vehicles are barely heard as Drescoll folds the map and prepares to move out. The sun’s rays shining down provide no warmth, its brightness in direct contrast to how he feels. Tension mounts with the upcoming operation and his stomach is churning, again wondering if Allie is okay. Drescoll isn’t really sure if not knowing is a good or bad thing. On one hand, not knowing gives him hope that she is okay, but on the other, it leads his mind down a very dark path. He has never been very good with not knowing things; they weigh heavier on his mind. His thoughts always tend to wander down the darkest path available. Climbing into one of the Humvee passenger seats, he looks at the clouds gathering on the horizon. That is more of how he feels — that there are dark clouds gathering.

Taking a long route around the area, Drescoll is antsy and has a difficult time not telling the driver to accelerate. Every fiber is pulled tight and he almost orders the group to the hospital so he can find out about Allie…to protect her. Of course, if she is with Jack and alive, she will be pissed beyond belief. He tried to be protective of her once and regretted that for the next several days. A memory enters of her smiling up at him, fueling his anxiety.

The two Humvees travel along a road adjacent to Capital Lake. The once pristine park surrounding it is now overgrown. The water is barely visible through the tall weeds as they make their way along its side and turn. Climbing a steep hill, they make another turn and begin heading toward the area where Red Team, Lynn, and the sniper are located.

Entering the edge of town and a shopping area, Drescoll has the driver slow to minimize the sound of their presence. Strip malls line both sides of the street which eventually lead to the large grounds that encompass the Capital Mall. Each shop emits a presence of being uninhabited for a long period of time. Where the glass isn’t outright broken, grime-covered windows stare mutely at the passage of the small convoy.

Drescoll directs them into a Taco Time parking lot where they disembark. The teams quietly gather their gear and check each other over. From here, they’ll proceed on foot, circumventing the building to the south, and begin setting up a perimeter on the far side. He would normally call, informing the others of his progress, but decides to maintain radio silence in case they are being monitored.

They set their intervals and, with a nod from Drescoll, they begin. The large team proceeds cautiously up one of the streets leading around the building circled on the map. With each step, a feeling of dread comes over Drescoll. He has to keep himself in check mentally lest he drive the team at a hasty pace. He gives his head a minute shake to clear it from the negative thoughts crowding it.

Not a sound accompanies their trek through the wide streets as they pass several apartment complexes. Debris is piled up against the curbs with a fine grit of dirt covering the roadways and sidewalks. Warmth streams from the sunlit sky and several birds leave nearby branches at their approach, crossing the street to perch on other limbs. The very air itself feels oppressive, but that is only the tension emanating from the team as they zero in on their prey.

Drescoll plans their route to ensure they won’t be spotted from the sniper’s perch, passing several blocks away from the building itself. He begins leaving teams of two at some of the cross streets, making sure they are well-covered before moving on. He has no doubt the shooter will flee at the approach of the Stryker and plans to set a cordon around the area to catch the person. Alive if possible, but he briefed the team not to take chances and shoot if necessary, especially if there is a security team in place. If they find themselves in a position where they would be outgunned, they are to regroup and report.

Turning down a street on the very edge of town, dilapidated houses to one side and a tangle of fields on the other, he places another team in thick bushes. Making sure the team is well-placed, Drescoll glances down the street to clear it before moving on. His eyes widen and he feels a small jolt of adrenaline. On the side of road, two narrow tracks proceed along the street, creating a barely discernible path through the grit on the surface.

He visually follows the path and notes they come to an end, turning off the street and into the bushes to one side. He signals the rest of them to the find and warily walks beside the path created by the tires. The narrowness of the tracks tells him that it isn’t a vehicle but either a quad or perhaps a golf cart…maybe even a dune buggy. Whatever it is, the tracks were created very recently, seeing as how the tread patterns are still well defined.

With his weapon trained on the spot where the vehicle exited the road, and making sure the others are covering the houses on the other side, Drescoll slowly advances. He fully expects the bushes to erupt in gunfire, but the single set of tires also indicates that whoever drove here didn’t arrive with great numbers.

The silence is almost overwhelming. A few birds call from farther back in the trees but are the only sounds — other than the steady drumming of his heartbeat in his ears. He looks toward the bushes looking for the barest tip of a rifle poking out. His heart almost leaps out of his chest at the flash of movement he catches in the corner of his eye. Looking quickly at the movement’s location, the barrel of his M-4 tracking with his eyes and his finger tightening on the trigger, he glimpses a black and gray striped cat as it disappears around the corner of one of the houses.

He feels like he’s walking on the edge of a razor blade. His nerves are stretched taut, and his breath comes quicker with the rapid flood of adrenaline overloading his body. Drescoll takes a few deep, calming breaths in order to restore his system. Sweat from his brow drips into his eyes and he wipes a hand across to clear them. All other thoughts leave as he is now focused on a single area. The bushes ahead become his entire universe. He looks for any abnormal movement of twig or leaf, listens for a tell-tale scruff of something shifting, an outline of someone hiding in their depths.

He nears where the tracks turn off, every muscle vibrating from tension, every sense highly-tuned. He feels the press of the folding stock against his shoulder, the warm breath across his upper lip as it is exhaled through his nose, the feel of his boot as he puts pressure down with each step, his finger resting on the trigger, ready to deliver violence at a moment’s notice.

Approaching the spot, even the birds have gone silent as if they are intently watching the drama unfold near them and holding their own breaths, ready to take wing. Nothing happens. The tracks lead through the bushes and Drescoll follows with the others behind. Not too far into the thick brambles, he finds a quad behind one of the bushes with branches over it concealing it further. A single set of footprints lead from the four-wheeler paralleling the street. Reaching down, he feels the motor to find it cool. Whoever was here arrived at least an hour ago.

A single set of prints is a good sign as long as this was the only vehicle. Keeping part of the team with him, Drescoll has the others take branches to sweep away evidence of their passage along the street. He then directs them to proceed up the street, erasing their tracks as they go, and take positions farther along. As they move out, he clears the tracks adjacent to the quad. He and his teammate settle into a dense thicket where they can still observe the vehicle and wait.

“Horace, proceed,” Drescoll calls after giving the others of his team time to reach their positions.

Two clicks in his earpiece is the only response he needs. Horace should flush the shooter this way, and he’ll be ready. It’s already taken way too long, but they did it right. Unless the shooter rode with another and parked a similar vehicle at some other location, they should have some company soon.

The air within the thicket is oppressively warm. Drescoll, squatting in the bushes, feels trickles of sweat as they make their way down the middle of his back, over his brow, and from his temples down his jawline. A slow brush of his finger across his brow keeps his eyes clear — each movement exaggerated so as to not draw attention. His heart rate has calmed from the heavy, adrenaline-fueled beating of before. The only sound is the occasional buzz of flies being drawn to the moisture his body is producing. His senses are acute as he keeps a sharp eye on the houses across the street.

The prickly heat is annoying as he waits. He expects to hear the sound of the Stryker as it approaches the building several blocks away, but he hears only the continual buzzing as flies alight on his sleeves and bare skin only to take off and land again. A flicker of movement near one of the houses catches his attention. Looking to the location, he sees the outline of a head and shoulders peeking around the corner of one of the houses. Drescoll watches as the head turns slowly from side to side, carefully checking the area.

He feels his heart rate quicken at the sight of the other person and forces himself to be still. Triggering the ambush too early will increase the odds of the shooter escaping. Drescoll wants to alert the others via radio but there may be the chance that they are being monitored. Without warning, the figure steps out from the corner and darts across the road, heading directly for him. Feeling beads of sweat as they drip down his face, Drescoll forces patience.

Let him come to you, he thinks, tightening the grip on his M-4.

As the figure makes his way swiftly across the street, Drescoll sees the person is armed with a carbine and another, longer barrel of a rifle strapped across the running figure’s back. He hears the swish of branches sweeping across the person’s legs as he or she begins making their way through the dense bushes. Entering the small clearing with the quad, the shooter glances quickly around and then, sliding the M-4 style carbine in a long holster situated across the handle bars, he climbs on. Drescoll rises.

Hearing the sound of someone nearby, the shooter reaches for his side.

“That’s not a very good idea. You’ll be dead before it clears the holster. Slowly put your hands on top of your head,” Drescoll states, his red dot centered on the individual’s head.

The figure complies and, still sitting on the quad, laces his fingers on top of his head. Drescoll steps through the bush to have a clearer line of sight.

“Tie his hands behind his back,” Drescoll says, nodding at his partner.

His colleague lets his M-4 dangle from its sling and steps forward. The shooter, with lightening quick reflexes, turns and attempts to grab the teammate. Drescoll, anticipating something of this sort, steps in and, reversing his M-4, slams the butt into the back of the shooter’s head. The man falls forward, tumbling off the vehicle, and lands facedown with one leg hanging on the seat. The shooter doesn’t move.

With caution, Drescoll ties the man’s hands and calls the other teams, cautioning for them to keep a lookout for anyone else.

With Drescoll’s radio call of capture, I check the surrounding buildings through my scope and, seeing nothing, we cautiously ease out of our cover. I immediately head to McCafferty. Looking closer at her wound, I see that there wouldn’t have been anything we could do for her even if we’d administered first aid right away. The round hit her in the throat and tore a large portion of it out. The only redeeming facet is that she wouldn’t have known what hit her. Looking down at her, she seems even smaller. I feel the deep pain of grief grab my heart, and the first hot tears come. Barely hearing Drescoll call again, I have him make his way to the hospital.

With the others looking on with saddened faces, Gonzalez and I clean Allie’s wound as best we can. Faint screams of night runners drift out of the hospital and across the area. I look up at the arrival of the Stryker and Humvees several minutes later. I begin to rise to meet Drescoll when I feel Lynn’s hand on my shoulder.

“I’ll handle this,” she says, rising and walking across the tall grass to meet the arriving teams.

As Lynn heads over to meet Drescoll, Horace and her team half support and half drag a man to where we are gathered around Allie. Arriving, they release him and he drops to his knees. His hands are tied behind his back and he appears groggy. As his knees hit the ground, he raises his head and stares at me expressionless.

He appears only a little younger than me and is clean cut with a few days stubble showing. It only takes one look for me to know two things. This man is a professional and is the type that puts his skills to use for someone else. That means someone sent him. We need to figure out whom; but just as importantly, why. The presence of the quad indicates he had to come some distance, but that distance is also a limited one. We need to find out how far away the camp is. I’m surprised to find that he is alone; shooters usually work in teams. We could have missed his partner or partners, but I have no doubt that there are others nearby. That leaves two options — they either have an established outpost somewhere close or that their major encampment is. Regardless, there are others out there that we need to find.

Looking down at the man, I know this guy didn’t come from any ordinary group of marauders. If he did, he would be leading them and more than likely not running missions. Yes, there is a lot that can be gleaned from a three-second look. The question running through my mind is how they tracked us and found us at the hospital — that they knew to meet us here.

There is the possibility that we were a target of opportunity but, in my mind, the scales tip toward a planned operation judging from the skillset I am assuming the shooter has and the fact that the quad was found camouflaged. I’ll know more once I look through his gear, but if this was a planned operation, then it has much larger ramifications. This camp or outpost must be found almost as urgently as destroying the remnants of the hospital night runner lair. We may be able to do both this afternoon. If we can locate the camp/outpost, there is the chance we can capture the others. However, I won’t risk more of our teams in an all-out assault if it looks to be too difficult. More people to interrogate would be nice because, looking at the man staring defiantly at me, he won’t be talking anytime soon. He has the appearance of knowing the game. We’ll have to make the call when we see what we are dealing with. We may just have to use the Spooky and take them out.

With the distant shriek of night runners for company, our eyes lock for a few seconds.

“You missed,” I state.

It pains me to say this because his miss is why Allie is lying on the ground near my feet. However, the tone with this man needs to be set. He won’t be showing any weakness and neither can we.

Breaking eye contact with him, I look to where Lynn is talking with Drescoll. I watch with deep sorrow as Lynn delivers the news. Drescoll’s head falls and Lynn puts her arm around his shoulder. They stand that way for several moments before slowly making their way to us.

Gonzalez is kneeling by McCafferty’s side with one hand on her shoulder, her head down and tears falling to the ground. Drescoll arrives, his breath coming in ragged gasps, and kneels down. Gonzalez meets his eyes, pats his shoulder, and rises.

Through his sobs, Drescoll utters, “Oh, Allie…why? You were the only bright light in this world. Why did you have to leave?”

Drescoll places his arms underneath Allie’s limp form, and gently, with great tenderness, he scoops her up. His tears splash on her vest and, turning, he carries her slowly to his Humvee.

Watching, I feel my heart fill even more with a great sadness, grabbing hold of it and squeezing. More tears fill my eyes and spill out, marching down my cheeks. Gonzalez wipes her tears away, leaving more dirty streaks, and joins Drescoll where he is laying McCafferty’s body in the vehicle. Gonzalez helps, smoothing out Allie’s hair and, together, with gentleness and caring, they make her seem more at peace.

I watch as Drescoll falls to his knees outside of the Humvee and takes Allie’s hand. He holds it to his face and I see his shoulders begin to shake anew. Gonzalez remains with him with her hand on his shoulder.

I look down at our prisoner. I kept him here hoping that the scene would appeal to his humanity in some regard — that he would see what he caused and for his façade crumble, but he just looks on with the same expressionless face.

Drescoll gingerly, and ever so gently, places Allie’s hand in her lap and turns in our direction. The incredible sadness etched across his face turns into a storm of rage when he sees our prisoner — the transformation startling. Pulling his sidearm, he marches across the waist high grass, making a beeline in our direction.

Gonzalez catches up to Drescoll and grabs his arm. He shucks her off, but she reaches out again, more firmly this time. He turns angrily toward her and she begins talking. After a moment, he lowers his head and holsters his Beretta. He then resumes his march, coming to a halt directly before the kneeling prisoner.

“You are on borrowed time. You get to live for now but, know this, at some point, I will hurt you. I will hurt you bad!” Drescoll states.

The man, staring defiantly at Drescoll, utters his first words. “We all die sometime, mate.” The accent is unmistakable.

“Who said anything about dying?” Drescoll says with soft menace.

Drescoll stalks back to the Humvee, stands next to it, and strokes Allie’s hair.